


brand new ballgame

by perfectlyrose



Series: take me out to the ballgame [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Baseball, Baseball, First Meetings, M/M, Mutual Pining, the start of some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 09:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20445011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlyrose/pseuds/perfectlyrose
Summary: Keith steps up onto the first step of the dugout and his eyes go wide when he sees Takashi Shirogane, fallen legend, throwing pitches from the mound, frustration written all over his face.Everyone knows Shirogane’s story. Baseball’s brightest star, the injury, the botched Tommy John surgery, the stoic press conference where he confirmed that he would never be able to return to the game and retired with more grace than anyone could have expected.Shiro's a former ace, hanging around the team as an assistant pitching coach after circumstances force his retirement. Keith's an up-and-coming shortstop just acquired by the Voltron Lions. When their paths cross it's the start of a brand new ballgame played on and off the field.





	brand new ballgame

**Author's Note:**

> for the [Championsheith](https://twitter.com/championsheith) event on twitter!!
> 
> big thanks to [jess](https://twitter.com/warpspeed_chic) for all the encouragement and pushing me to write baseball sheiths in the first place ♥

For a few years, Takashi Shirogane was on top of the world. One of baseball’s youngest starting pitchers with a fastball that blew straight past the best hitters and a dazzling smile, his name was on everyone’s lips and in the mix for the Cy Young, even as a rookie. He was beloved by his city for his play that helped his team make it all the way to the ALCS that rookie year as well as his community engagement and charm.

He has three seasons as the dominant ace in the league, as the face of a growing queer community in baseball, before everything falls apart.

It’s game seven of the ALCS and Shiro is pitching on short rest because his team needs their ace to propel them to the World Series. He’s made it to the sixth inning and only allowed one run on two hits and a walk. His pitch count is climbing faster than he’d prefer but he can deal with it. He wants to get through seven for his team, take the pressure off the guys in the bullpen.

He looks in to his catcher, shaking off two signals before agreeing on a slider low and inside. He should be able to sneak it into the corner and Barrows has a habit of taking anything inside. Shiro is feeling confident that he’ll get his sixth strikeout of the game and the all important last out of the inning as he winds up.

The pitch is perfect. His catcher holds it in place, waiting for the umpire’s call.

It doesn’t come.

Annoyance tries to bubble up but Shiro pushes it down. _ Patience yields focus _ , he tells himself as he lets out a long breath and accepts the ball lobbed back to him. His catcher calls for a fastball, up and in this time, and Shiro nods in agreement. His fastball is his signature and it’s felt _ good _ tonight. Good velocity and good control. Batter will be waiting for a fastball with the count full, but Shiro’s confident he can still get it by his bat and inside the apparently shrinking strikezone.

He winds up, grip sure on the ball. Shiro hurls the ball at the plate and hears it hit the catcher’s glove with a loud slap. The umpire’s call follows half a second later. Strike three. Inning over. Lead preserved.

It’s the fastest pitch he’s ever thrown, he learns later.

It’s also his last. 

The twinge in his elbow after the pitch blooms into pain as he sits in the dugout. He waits until his team has secured the win before telling his pitching coach exactly what it feels like. He’s booked in for an MRI at the local hospital that same night and given the news while his teammates are still celebrating making it to the World Series.

The ligament in his arm is torn and he’s headed for Tommy John surgery and at least a year away from baseball for recovery and rehabilitation.

He doesn’t cry. Not even when the surgery — routine, _ so _routine in this day and age — goes wrong and leaves him with damaged nerves in his arm and the weakness and intermittent numbness in his arm and hand that goes with it.

He’ll never pitch on a big league mound again and he just feels numb.

Shiro goes through rehab like he's planning on returning to baseball, regaining as much strength in his arm as he can.

The team management stands behind him through rehab and his early retirement announcement after ending the season getting swept in the World Series.

The season Shiro would've missed anyways, if he was coming back, is middling. The team finishes middle of the pack, disappointing after a World Series appearance, and then trades away multiple key players in a bid to build towards the future.

The fan base is furious.

Shiro's rehab is complete and, while he can't return to professional baseball with his weakened grip, he still clings to the game. The team — now with new management after a top-down overhaul that had been a long time coming — offers him a role as an advisory assistant pitching coach. It's a bullshit position but it keeps him close to the game he loves, so he takes it.

The pitchers on staff respect him enough to listen to his advice and might actually like him better now that he’s not their competition for time out on the mound. Shiro’s success was due as much to his almost encyclopedic knowledge of the batters in the game as his arsenal of pitches, and it’s still valuable information, even a year removed from use. He watches film to make sure his information is up to date and passes it onto the guys who will actually face the hitters.

Most days, Shiro can still demonstrate a proper grip on the baseball. He can correct someone else’s grip even on the days that his hand refuses to cooperate. He can correct the mechanics and coach strategy, but he can’t _ pitch _.

(It eats at him, not being able to step out on the mound himself, to know that he’s an object of pity that they whisper about in the bullpen when he’s not quite in earshot — the ex-ace who just can’t walk away.)

(Shiro knows he only has this job because he’s beloved by the fans and it’s good press to keep him on. The front office needs the good press after their disastrous trades. He knows this and it eats at him too, but he can’t walk away from the game he’s dedicated his life to, from this tiny shard of the dream he once thought was firmly in his grasp.)

Some nights, Shiro stays behind when the rest of the staff and players have gone home. The lights are dimmed down but it’s still enough to see by. Shiro drags a bucket of baseballs out to small mound in the bullpen, in the practice area, wherever he can avoid any lingering eyes, and runs drills, throwing ball after ball until the weakness in his fingers flares up and the baseball falls out of his suddenly nerveless grip. He throws one more pitch anyways and watches it go wild and bang against the backstop several feet wide of the plate.

He bites back the tears viciously as he steps off the mound to collect all the balls and erase all traces of his fruitless practice.

The team is in the middle of another slightly better than middling season when the front office makes a surprising trade at the deadline. For a couple prospects and a reliever, the Voltron Lions acquire a young, hotshot shortstop by the name of Keith Kogane from their in-division rivals, the Sincline Knights.

Keith’s been with the Lions for two weeks and he’s still yet to settle in. The morale is high in the clubhouse tonight with a blowout win under their belts and a notch closer to securing a wild card berth come October. One of the outfielders razzes Keith a little and the catcher claps him on the shoulder on the way past, but mostly everyone leaves him be.

Coming in from a rival team doesn’t exactly make it easy to make friends and Keith knows he’s not the easiest person to talk to off the diamond. He didn’t exactly leave behind many friends on Sincline. He works well with his teammates during the game, though and that’s what matters to him.

The indifference of his teammates makes it easy to fade into the background, though. By the time he’s showered and changed, the clubhouse is quiet. Keith lingers for a moment before he slings his bag over his shoulder and heads towards the door.

It’s a whim to walk down to the field instead of heading for the parking lot and then his empty apartment. Keith’s still getting used to calling this his home field. He’s always hit well when visiting this ballpark, but every look from home plate out at the green grass and the distant numbers on the outfield walls, and every time he stands in the dirt between second and third, helps cement that this is his turf now.

He expects the field to be empty. It’s been long enough since the game ended for cleanup to be finished and the groundskeepers usually do their upkeep in the morning. He walks into the dugout and is surprised to hear a grunt and the sound of a baseball hitting packed dirt.

Keith steps up onto the first step of the dugout and his eyes go wide when he sees Takashi Shirogane, fallen legend, throwing pitches from the mound, frustration written all over his face.

Everyone knows Shirogane’s story. Baseball’s brightest star, the injury, the botched Tommy John surgery, the stoic press conference where he confirmed that he would never be able to return to the game and retired with more grace than anyone could have expected.

Keith watched that press conference on his phone in his hotel room the day he was called up to the big leagues. His new team, the Fort Worth Garrison, was slated to play Voltron that night and the news was everywhere.

Keith had kept a close eye on Shirogane’s career. He was the best and as good off the field as on it. The fact that he looked the way he did and openly, proudly gay didn’t hurt a bit. Keith desperately wanted to face off against him and his famed fastball, had set it as one of his goals for when he got to the big leagues. He was going to hit a home run off him.

And then everything happened and Keith remembers the pang of disappointment of knowing they’d never share a field even as his heart broke for what Shirogane was going through.

Here and now he watches Shirogane let another pitch fly. Fastball. A shadow of his old heater, but still solid in the mechanics if the twist of pain that crosses his face in the aftermath is ignored. The dirt behind home plate is covered in a dozen or more balls already. He’s been at this a while.

Keith knew Shirogane was still on staff, but as a shortstop he doesn’t have much to do with the pitching coaches and he never really expected to cross paths with him.

It takes barely a second for him to decide to dig his glove out of his bag and jog out onto the field in his street clothes, boots on his feet instead of cleats.

“Shirogane, right?” He calls out when he gets close enough not to yell. He knows it is, the tuft of white hair sticking out from the front of his cap is a signature he kept even after retiring, and Keith knows the lines of his pitching stance in his sleep.

Shiro whirls towards the voice with a start, something like panic tickling the back of his throat. No one’s supposed to be out here this late. No one’s supposed to see _ this_; especially not the hotshot shortstop they just acquired in a last ditch attempt to add some punch to the lineup as they fight for a wild card spot.

He eyes Kogane, taking in his leather jacket over a loose red t-shirt and a pair of jeans that look tighter than the uniform pants somehow. He’s a stunner and Shiro kind of wishes they were meeting under different circumstances. He lands on the pair of wide violet eyes blinking back at him with no judgement to be found.

Shiro watches him warily. “That’s me. You’re Kogane, right?”

Kogane nods. “Keith,” he offers.

Shiro fumbles for something to say, feeling off balance. Usually it’s easy enough to offer a smile and bland, sincere bit of small talk before excusing himself, but usually he’s not struggling through pitches in a darkened stadium atop a mound that’s no longer his territory.

“You settling in here, alright?” Shiro finally asks. He doesn’t have much to do with the position players, but he hasn’t heard of any clubhouse drama with the new addition.

“Good enough,” Keith replies with a half shrug. He nods back towards home plate and gestures with his glove. “You need a catcher?”

Shiro just stares, caught off guard _ again _. “What?”

“Catcher,” Keith repeats. He offers a thin sliver of a smile and another shrug. “Played a few games behind the plate over the years. Know enough to at least give you a target.”

“Um,” Shiro says, eloquently. He should say no. He should _ really _ say no, but Kogane looks mildly hopeful and he’s out here offering even after playing a long game tonight. “Sure, if you want.”

“Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t,” Keith returns with a snort. He turns and jogs towards the plate.

Shiro’s eyes drop to the way his jeans hug his ass. He might be having a bad day (month, year, whatever) but he’s not dead. What he is is still very single and very gay and it’s a universally acknowledged truth that baseball players have gorgeous asses. Kogane’s, encased in very tight darkwash denim, is a perfect example.

Keith easily drops into a catcher’s crouch behind the plate despite the tight denim and punches his fist into his glove before centering it right in the middle of the strikezone.

Shiro suddenly is faced with throwing a pitch for someone else from the mound for the first time since his injury. He’s too aware of the way his pitches go wild sometimes, his command weakened with his grip, and the complete lack of protective gear on Kogane.

He throws a pitch as carefully as he can, as close to a lob as he can manage without being insulting. It hits right in the middle of Keith’s glove.

“I saw you throw harder than than,” Kogane calls as he tosses the ball to the side, setting up for another pitch. “I won’t break, Shirogane. Show me what you’ve got.”

Shiro gradually works his way up to harder pitches, sticking to fastballs to not catch Keith off-guard. It’s something like fifteen pitches later when one gets away from him again, curving wide of the plate and drilling the dirt before rolling to the backstop. Shiro winces at the tingling numbness in his arm.

Keith pops up from his crouch and makes a face of his own. “Think that’s all my knees can take tonight,” he says. “You ready to call it a night?”

Shiro waits for Kogane to ask if he’s okay, for that smothering concern that people have directed at him since the surgery to make an appearance, but it never does. He flexes his hand and ducks his head, using the bill of his cap to hide his face. “Yeah, think so.”

“Cool. Bring the bucket down here and I’ll help round up the balls.”

“You don’t have to,” Shiro protests as he grabs the handle with his left hand and head towards the plate. “My mess.”

“No point in leaving you to do it on your own when I’m already here,” Keith retorts.

The collect the balls in silence, refilling the bucket. Shiro hefts it when they’re done, ready to put it back in the dugout where he got it from. Keith precedes him down the stairs and stashes his glove back in the bag he’d apparently left there.

Keith shoulders the bag and turns back to look at Shiro. He bites his lip and Shiro is distracted enough by it that he almost misses his question. “Want to grab dinner?”

Shiro hesitates and it’s long enough that nerves seem to get the better of Kogane and he starts talking again.

“I haven’t been here long enough to know the good places to get anything good this late that’s not a drive-thru, and no one’s offered any recommendations.” He trails off with a shrug, looking down at the floor where he scuffs at the dirt with the toe of his boot.

Shiro recognizes the easy out he’s been given and appreciates it. He could give Keith a recommendation or two and go his separate way, back to his house and its too-quiet rooms. But he doesn’t want to do that. He wants to get to spend a little bit more time with the new shortstop and puzzle out the way kindness seems to hide in his silences.

He offers a smile. “Can’t have that. Come on, I’ll show you the best-kept secret in the area.”

Keith’s answering grin is a lightning strike and there’s something like relief in his eyes. “Lead the way, Shirogane.”

“You can call me Shiro,” he says as they exit the dugout and start the walk to the parking lot. “My whole name’s a bit of a mouthful.”

“Alright, Shiro,” Keith says. He aims another knife-sharp smile at him. “Gets pronounced right more often, I bet too.”

Shiro laughs. “You have the same problem?”

Keith makes a face. “I grew up in Texas. Rural Texas. ‘Ko-gain’ was the norm.”

“Oof.”

“Yeah.”

They step outside and Keith lets out a sigh. “Nice to be somewhere with seasons, as well. I only knew fall wasn’t a complete myth because of road games before ending up out here on the east coast.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without seasons,” Shiro admits. He’s never lived somewhere without them.

“Suffer,” Keith says dryly.

It startles a laugh out of Shiro. “Fair enough. Want to follow me to the diner so we don’t have to come back here?”

“Works for me,” Keith says. “What’s the place called? Just in case I need to google it if I lose you.”

“It’s Black Lion Diner,” Shiro says, walking backwards as he approaches his car. “Don’t judge it on sight.”

“Hole in the wall places are my favorite,” Keith assures him, peeling off towards his own car. “I’ll see you there, Shiro.”

Shiro secondguesses himself the moment he slides behind the wheel. He’s never actually taken anyone to Black Lion. It’s his little sanctuary, the place he used to go to get some time to himself after a start. The food’s incredible and the staff treats him like anyone else and he loves it. He’s not sure what instinct led to him inviting Keith to come with him instead of showing him one of the other late-night haunts, but he has to go with it now.

By the time he pulls into the mostly empty parking lot, Shiro’s worked himself back up into a maelstrom of worry. Just because Keith was quiet when they were out on the field doesn’t mean it will carry over to dinner together. There’s every chance he’ll ask about what Shiro was doing out on the mound tonight and he doesn’t want to talk about it.

(His therapist would probably tell him it would be good for him to talk about it with someone, but there’s a reason he’s been ducking their office’s phone calls to make another appointment.)

Shiro kills the engine and steps out to wait for Keith to join him in front of the door.

“Looks like my kind of place,” Keith says, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket.

“It’s my favorite,” Shiro admits. He tugs the door open, the familiar jangle of the bell above it automatically taking some of the tension from his shoulders.

“You did say it was the best-kept secret,” Keith says with another one of those half-smiles.

Shiro’s itching to see what a full blown grin looks like on his face, wonders absently what would garner one as he gestures for Keith to step inside ahead of him.

“Shiro!” LeeAnn calls from behind the counter, effectively diverting his attention. “It’s been ages. Thought you abandoned us for good and moved away.”

“I would never,” he said easily, smiling at the friendly waitress. “At least not without telling you.”

“Charmer,” she teases with a wink. Her eyes fall on Keith and Shiro sees the appreciative gleam in them. “I see you brought a friend today. Your normal booth should be open and I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Thanks, LeeAnn.”

He herds Keith to the back corner and slides into the booth, back towards the rest of the diner. Keith takes the seat across from him.

“Definitely a favorite haunt then, huh?” Keith says. “Haven’t heard a greeting like that since I left Texas.”

“She’s from South Carolina,” Shiro reveals. “There is some effusive southern charm sometimes.”

Keith snorts. Shiro reaches for two laminated menus, slightly tacky with what he assumes is syrup, and slides one over to Keith.

“Any recommendations?” Keith asks.

“Literally anything. I’ve tried pretty much everything on the menu and it’s all good.”

Keith chews on his bottom lip as he looks over the menu.

LeeAnn shows up with a bright smile and her order pad in hand. “What can I get you boys to drink?”

“Got any of your tea left, by any chance?” Shiro asks hopefully. The Black Lion Cafe when LeeAnn is working is the only place to get sweet tea in his opinion. She’d served him some once when she’d deduced his sweet tooth and he’s never looked back.

“Always enough for you, hon,” she says. “And you, sweet thing? You want the sweet tea too?”

“Just water for me, please,” Keith says.

“Alright, I’ll go get those for y’all. Let the new guy figure out the menu.” She winks at Keith this time and saunters away.

He blinks a couple of times and then looks at Shiro, mildly bewildered.

Shiro laughs. “She’s a lot, I know. But she does make the best sweet tea I’ve ever had.”

“Surprised you can even find it up here,” Keith admits.

“This is really the only place, and only when LeeAnn is working. She doesn’t trust anyone who wasn’t born and raised in the south to make it.”

That pulls another smile from Keith before he looks back down at his menu. “I wouldn’t either.” He bites his lip. “Are you going to judge me if I order like, a shitton of food?”

“No?”

“Okay, good, because I’m _ really _ hungry and this all sounds really good.”

“They have to-go boxes, too,” Shiro says. “If your eyes are bigger than your stomach.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, Shirogane?”

“Depends on exactly how much food you’re ordering.”

Keith’s smile is shark-like now. 

Whatever remark was sitting on his tongue stays there because LeeAnn shows up with their drinks and then whips out her order pad once more. “You boys ready?”

“I’ll have the two eggs plate, over easy, with hashbrowns, toast, and an extra order of bacon,” Shiro rattles off.

“You got it, hon. And you, sweet thing?”

Keith expression at the return of the endearment makes Shiro have to bite back a laugh but he stays polite. Keith looks at him, eyes sparkling before he looks up at LeeAnn. “I’ll have the Black Lion breakfast, also over easy, with hashbrowns, toast, and bacon. Can I also get a cheeseburger plate?”

LeeAnn’s eyebrows go up. “Sure thing. How do you want that burger cooked?”

“Little bit pink in the middle? Never know how to order it.”

She winks. “It depends on who’s cooking. Want everything on that?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Oh, you found yourself a polite _ southern _ one, Shiro,” LeeAnn says, brightening. “Well done.”

Shiro chokes.

“I’ll get that order in.” She disappears again with a snap of her notebook.

Shiro hears her barking out their orders to the cook and dares to look over at Keith. He looks highly amused.

“She means well,” he says helplessly.

“Seems like it,” Keith says. “It’s nice to have someone like that around. Nice to have somewhere like this.”

He really seems to mean it and Shiro appreciates that. He wants to relax here with Keith, tease him about the frankly ridiculous amount of food he ordered, and get to know him, but he can’t forget how they met earlier and his shoulders are tense with the anticipation of the elephant in the room be acknowledged.

He expects Keith to bring up any of it, really. He’s a ball player, it’s almost inevitable that the conversation will circle around to baseball and then the fact that Shiro doesn’t play anymore. So, he waits for Keith to bring up his career, his injury, the fact that he was out throwing pitches in the near-dark on an empty field like the pathetic has-been he is, still chasing that feeling of glory.

Keith doesn’t do any of those things. He talks about the city, asking Shiro about different places and wrinkling his nose at Shiro’s confirmation that the winter is _ very _ cold. He tells Shiro about Texas, where he grew up and then spent most of his minor league days and the first season of his major league career, about the long hot summers and the little Mexican restaurant he misses most out of anything he left behind.

“They knew me almost as well as they seem to know you here,” Keith says, a piece of waffle hanging off his fork. He’s already mowed through his eggs, the short stack of pancakes, half his burger, and his hashbrowns. Shiro is impressed.

He’s also thoroughly charmed by the intense shortstop and the air of earnestness about him. Shiro’s anxiety about baseball conversation has eased enough for him to just enjoy having a good meal with an extremely good looking guy. It’s definitely been awhile since Shiro’s been on anything even approaching a date.

This still doesn’t exactly qualify, but it’s still the closest he’s gotten in months and it’s definitely going better than that disaster.

“Well, now you know about this place and I’m sure you’ll find others,” Shiro says.

“Still not going to find good Tex-Mex up here,” Keith complains. “And I missed the trip to Texas on the schedule so it’ll be offseason before I can go back.”

Shiro steals a french fry from Keith’s burger plate. “You planning on spending the offseason back in Texas, then?”

Keith shrugs. “Don’t know yet. Depends on some things, I guess. But I’ll at least try to visit for my Mexican food fix. Maybe some Whataburger too.”

Shiro can read the tension suddenly in Keith’s shoulders at talk of the offseason and it feels like something he doesn’t want to talk about as much as Shiro doesn’t want to talk about his pitching earlier.

“Sounds good,” he says. “I grew up on the west coast but I don’t get out there much. I’ve gone native here.”

“Which is why I’m taking all of your local recommendations seriously,” Keith says.

LeeAnn comes over with their check, which Keith tries to cover, claiming that he invited Shiro so he should get it, but Shiro convinces him to split it. Keith boxes up half his burger, the only food he didn’t finish, and suddenly there’s no more reason to linger.

They wave goodbye to LeeAnn who tells them to come back soon and then find themselves standing a little awkwardly in the parking lot, keys in hand.

“Um, thanks for showing me this place,” Keith says. “I appreciate it. And the company. I haven’t exactly gotten to know many people here yet, and it was nice.”

Shiro doesn’t think about it before reaching out and clapping his hand on Keith’s shoulder. “I had a good time. Thanks for inviting me out, Keith.”

It’s dark, but Shiro thinks Keith’s cheeks go a little pink. Promising. “Of course, Shiro. Maybe we can do this again sometime?”

“Yeah, I’d like that. Here, let me see your phone and I’ll put in my number.”

Keith fumbles his phone out of his pocket and curses when he realizes it’s dead. “Left my charger at home today,” he says with a grimace.

Shiro laughs and pulls out his own phone. He unlocks it and opens up a new contact before handing it over. “Just give me yours instead.”

Keith quickly taps in his info and hands it back. “I guess I’ll see you around then, Shiro.”

“I’ll text you,” Shiro promises.

Keith smiles. “You better. I do know where you work after all.”

Shiro laughs. “That you do. Goodnight, Keith.”

“Night, Shiro.”

Shiro watches Keith drive off and then pulls out onto the road to head home himself. He waits until he has his phone plugged in and he’s changed into pajamas before shooting off a text to Keith. 

**[From Shiro, 12:21 am] : ** _ This is Shiro. Texting so you have my number too. _

He pauses for a minute before sending another message.

**[From Shiro, 12:22 am] : ** _ Hope you made it home okay. _

Shiro turns his phone face down and turns out the bedside lamp and tries to do his breathing exercises to help calm his mind and find sleep. The moment his phone vibrates, he rolls over to see if it’s Keith.

**[From Keith, 12:41 am] : ** _ made it home. post-game and food coma commencing soon. _

Shiro smiles and puts his phone back down without answering.

He falls asleep quickly.

The next day, Shiro is feeling more upbeat than normal as he runs errands before heading into the stadium. He technically doesn’t need to be there in time for stretch, but habit has him walking in with ten minutes to spare. There’s another three days on this homestand, so it’s business as usual. He gives another rundown of the scouting report to tonight’s starter and then again to the bullpen guys before he’s essentially turned loose for the day.

It’s a whim to find a spot with a view of the field to see what the rest of the team is doing instead of heading to his closet of an office. The infielders are running through situational drills, practicing turning double plays and the different shifts they’ll be using tonight.

Shiro’s eyes land on Keith immediately. He’s in a t-shirt and shorts this afternoon, like everyone else on the field, and Shiro bites his lip. He looks really good.

A simulated ground ball heads towards him. Keith scoops it up and snaps a perfect throw to second. The second baseman taps his foot on the bag and turns and throws to first. It’s a little offline, but still close enough for the first baseman to snag it.

Shiro sees Keith say something to the second baseman. He nods and then Keith calls for another ground ball, just loud enough for Shiro to make out. This time, the double play attempt runs smoother this time.

Before anyone can see him, Shiro slips away to his office.

It takes him all of ten minutes before he’s googling Keith Kogane. There’s surprisingly little information on him out there. Grew up in Texas, was drafted by the Garrison, a team in north Texas, and spent some time in their farm system before being called up right around the time Shiro made his official retirement announcement.

He spent less than a full season with the Garrison, creating a buzz with his hot bat and sure glove, but they already had an established shortstop. When that shortstop came back from injury, the Garrison capitalized on the buzz and traded Kogane to Sincline in the off season.

Once there, Keith continued to garner attention. He played a season and a half there before being traded here to Voltron at the deadline this season.

Shiro quickly falls down a rabbit hole of watching film on Keith, easily available since he played for a divisional rival for a season and a half. He’s watched some of it before to help prepare the pitchers, but he watches with a different eye this time, pulling up his play at shortstop as well.

He’s breathtaking. Incredibly talented with an obvious innate sense of leadership bubbling just under the surface. Shiro can’t tear his eyes away.

He bites down on his lip as he searches for any interviews that might give even more insight into Kogane. There are surprisingly few for how much attention he’s sparked, for how talented he is. No one’s gotten any insight into his personal life and Shiro’s a little disappointed that it’s not that easy to find out if Keith is also into guys.

Shiro is watching a best-of compilation of Keith’s play at shortstop when his phone vibrates.

**[From Keith, 4:22 pm] : ** _ you around? i’m bored and no one wants to talk film with me _

**[From Shiro, 4:23 pm] : ** _ I’m in my office. Want me to come down to the clubhouse? _

**[From Keith, 4:23 pm] : ** _ i’ll come to you. where’s your office? _

Shiro quickly sends off directions to his office and closes all the tabs of videos containing Keith and opens the scouting material on today’s opponent.

Keith appears about ten minutes after his last text, still dressed casually with a tablet in hand.

“Hey,” Keith says from the doorway.

“Come on in to my closet,” Shiro says with a smile.

“Thought you escaped that whole mess,” Keith teases before freezing, obviously unsure if that is something Shiro is comfortable joking about.

Shiro snorts. “Apparently doesn’t apply outside of the metaphorical.”

“Pity,” Keith replies with another of those half-smiles. He sinks into one of the chairs across from Shiro’s desk.

Shiro eyes him. “So, no one wanted to talk film?”

Keith lets out a long sigh, closing his eyes. “Not for another hour at least. I was going crazy.”

Shiro knows the clubhouse is a mess of relaxation around this time — video games and hands of cards are the norm. It’s not surprising no one was ready to start getting back into the game mindset. It’s a little surprising that Keith isn’t joining them in relaxation, though.

He remembers Keith mentioning not getting any restaurant recommendations from the team yet, or really knowing anyone, last night and suddenly wonders exactly how deep that goes. He seemed to get along fine with the rest of the team on the field, but maybe it doesn’t extend to the clubhouse.

“Well, I’m always up for some film,” Shiro says. “Don’t know if any of it will help you, though. Different focuses.”

Keith bites his lip. “More information is always better.”

Shiro pushes his vague worry about Keith and the rest of the team down and comes around the desk to sit next to Keith and dissect film of the opposing pitcher and the way the defense sets up. It’s fascinating to hear Keith’s insights and how different they are from what he sees as a pitcher.

Former pitcher.

Whatever.

Keith glances at the time sometime after they’ve slipped into a conversation about different hitters around the league and grimaces. “I’ve got to get back to the clubhouse,” he says, almost apologetic.

“Of course,” Shiro says.

“You watching the game tonight?”

“Always,” Shiro admits. “Got season tickets as part of the retirement package.” He often just watches on the lounge TV instead of his seat, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Nice,” Keith says. He stands and Shiro mirrors him. They stand awkwardly for a moment before Keith slips past him. He lingers in the doorway. “I’ll talk to you later then?”

“You got it,” Shiro says and it tastes like a promise. “Knock ‘em dead out there, hotshot.”

Keith’s cheeks definitely flare pink this time.

Keith hits a home run and scores twice.

Keith mostly pretends that there isn’t a tiny part of him that was aiming to impress one Takashi Shirogane.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/LionessNapping) and yell about baseball sheiths with me!
> 
> i have a lot of ideas for this baseball verse so there will be more to this series and also likely some twitter threads because self control? don't know her!!


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